s face was dark, his eye was dark and penetrating
and passionate; his mouth was reckless and weak, his build was graceful,
and his voice was low and even--the voice of a gentleman; he was the
refined type of the Western gentleman-desperado, as Crittenden had
imagined it from fiction and hearsay. As the soldier turned away, the
old Sergeant saved him the question he was about to ask.

"He used to be an officer."

"Who--how's that?" asked Grafton, scenting "a story."

The old Sergeant checked himself at once, and added cautiously:

"He was a lieutenant in this regiment and he resigned. He just got back
to-day, and he has enlisted as a private rather than risk not getting to
Cuba at all. But, of course, he'll get his commission back again." The
Sergeant's manner fooled neither Grafton nor Crittenden; both respected
the old Sergeant's unwillingness to gossip about a man who had been his
superior, and Grafton asked no more questions.

There was no idleness in that camp. Each man was busy within and without
the conical-walled tents in which the troopers lie like the spokes of a
wheel, with heads out like a covey of partridges. Before one tent sat
the tall soldier--Abe--and the boy, his comrade, whom Crittenden had
seen the night before.

"Where's Reynolds?" asked Crittenden, smiling.

"Guard-house," said the Sergeant, shaking his head.

Not a scrap of waste matter was to be seen anywhere--not a piece of
paper--not the faintest odour was perceptible; the camp was as clean as
a Dutch kitchen.

"And this is a camp of cavalry, mind you," said Grafton. "Ten minutes
after they have broken camp, you won't be able to tell that there has
been a man or horse on the ground, except for the fact that it will be
packed down hard in places. And I bet you that in a month they won't
have three men in the hospital." The old Sergeant nearly blushed with
pleasure.

"An' I've got the best captain, too, sir," he said, as they turned away,
and Grafton laughed.

"That's the way you'll find it all through the army. Each colonel and
each captain is always the best to the soldier, and, by the way," he
went on, "do you happen to know about this little United States regular
army?"

"Not much."

"I thought so. Germany knows a good deal--England, France, Prussia,
Russia--everybody knows but the American and the Spaniard. Just look at
these men. They're young, strong, intelligent--bully, good Americans.
It's an army of picked men--picked fo